


Mating Games Submissions - 2014

by p1013



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Blow Jobs, Coitus Interruptus, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Film Noir, Humor, Knifeplay, Knotting, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Public Blow Jobs, Second-Hand Embarrassment, mating games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my submissions for the 2014 round of The Mating Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Round 1 - Fairy Tale Ending

Lydia walks into the room, dressed in a red leather bustier and little else. Derek strains against the table, the restraints cutting into his wrists, his nails cutting into his palms. She's holding something, but he can't tell what it is, not from his angle.

"My, what big eyes you have," she says, caressing his leg with her free hand. Her nails catch against his skin, sending shivers up his body. He feels his cock grow harder, feels it straining against his stomach. She runs her fingertips over it slowly, agonizingly. He strains upwards, desperate for a firmer touch, and she pulls away, smiling. As his body falls to rest against the table, she lays her hand flat against his stomach, just barely brushing his erection. Pressing just shy of too hard, she moves her hand over his skin, boldly following the contours of his flesh. He licks his lips, breathing heavily, skin breaking out in a thin sheen of sweat and goosebumps. She smiles, mouth quirked in a small grin, as she quickly pinches a nipple, making him gasp. Her grin turns feral, and she cups his neck, nails resting heavily behind his ear.

"My, what big teeth you have," she says, thumbing his mouth open. He lets his jaw fall loose, dropping open so that she can slip her thumb into the wet heat. He bites down gently, then sucks her thumb deep into his mouth, tongue wrapping carefully around the digit. His cheeks hollow out, drawing it in. He sees Lydia shiver and feels a flush of pride rush through him. She pulls her hand back, her thumb escaping from Derek's mouth with a loud, wet pop. She presses her hand to the table, then lifts herself over his body, legs splayed across his stomach. She's wet, the thin material of her panties dark and damp.

"My, what a big mouth you have." She leans forward, the words whispered against his lips. The kiss is more passionate than he expects, their teeth clashing harshly before it softens. Derek opens underneath her, letting her lead, more than happy to follow. Her tongue is warm and solid against his, the taste of her mouth making him groan and raise up from the table, hips tilting, desperate. Lydia clucks her tongue at him, lifting away, mouth swollen and red. That's when Derek sees the knife, sharp and gleaming in her hand.

She presses it gently against his throat, and he bares it, feeling his pulse racing, beating against the solid steel. She trails the sharp point over his skin, leaving a small indent where she presses, hard enough to mark but not hard enough to cut. He groans, fighting the urge to arch his back, to press into the cold metal. Lydia knows what she's doing, grinning above him like a hunter eyeing prey, already caught and struggling in her trap. She slowly trails the blade up her own leg, brushing it under the tight fabric of her panties, then slits the silk in one smooth tug. It falls to the side. Derek can see how wet she is, wants to taste her against his mouth, to press his tongue inside. She slowly slinks up his body, knife forgotten by her knee, fingers and lips trailing up his skin. She nips at his collarbone, licks a line up his neck to his ear.

“Are you going to eat me up?” She asks, biting down on the soft lobe. He groans, twists against the ropes, and she pulls away, legs bracketing his chest. She leans her body forward, brings her pussy so it’s hovering above his mouth. He leans up, presses his mouth to it, as Lydia gasps above him, thighs shaking. He runs his tongue lazily up the center, mouth flooding with her flavor. He circles her clit, pressing gently against it with the flat of his tongue, then dipping inside of her. It’s intoxicating. The sounds she makes. The taste, the scent. The slight twinge of pain when she grinds against his face a little too hard, lost in her pleasure.

She falls forward when she comes, catching herself with a hand tangled in Derek’s hair, pulling hard enough to tear a few strands loose. She slides down his body, limp and sated. She pets his hair absentmindedly, then climbs off the table.

“Good boy,” she says, grinning.


	2. Round 2 - The Beast Within

He feels it under his skin, like a crawling ache that he can’t shake. Like he’s spent too much time not moving, and now his muscles have to stand up and stretch and run. He feels it roiling underneath the surface, driving him to distraction, making his palms sweat and itch. The door is loud when he slams it shut, the sound echoing into a roar. He turns the lock, nearly breaks it off in his hand, and tears his jacket off. It falls somewhere with a soft thump, but he’s too busy scrambling to remove the rest of his clothes to notice.

His t-shirt is well worn and soft from innumerable washes, but the material stings as it slides across his skin. He growls, fangs cutting into his lip, and tosses it away, then pops the button of his jeans and groans. The denim scrapes against his skin, leaving goosebumps across his body. He’s not wearing any underwear, and his cock is already hardening, lifting from his thigh. His claws prick against his skin, and he has to fight back the shift. His nails are human when he takes himself into his fist. The skin of his palm is rough, calloused. It burns, too dry and too tight, but it feels good, and he arches into it. There’s precome gathering at the head, and he spreads it around with his thumb. He lets a claw out, traces it around the flared head, feels it into his bones. It aches just right, just how he needs it.

The tension is rising, making his skin ripple. His fangs are out, his face is shifted, and as he slowly jacks himself off, he feels the base of his dick swelling. His hand won’t go all the way down anymore, the tight clench of his fingers suddenly, achingly tighter. He groans into it, pressing against his hand, and he suddenly can’t control the thrust of his hips. He imagines that he’s pressing into the warmth of someone else, rather than his own hand. Imagines that he’s claiming his mate, marking them with teeth and tongue. He groans, hips thrusting. There’s a muscled back, dark hair, soft skin, spread out before his mental eye in a wanton display. Sweat pools on his neck, rolling down his back and settling in his spine. His knot pushes against his hand, breaches the tightness of his fingers, and he’s suddenly, painfully coming. There are thick white stripes of come covering his hand and the floor, but he doesn’t care. He squeezes his knot, tightens his grip to a point that’s too much, too tight, but it leaves him with a bone-deep sense of completion. It nearly puts him on his knees, but he locks his legs, locks his hand, lets it roll over him in waves. As he comes in sharp pulses, he squeezes. There’s a rhythm to it, one learned from years of practice and self-discovery. He sighs, the ache easing, soothed at least temporarily. He stands there in the center of his apartment, hand tight around his cock, and breathes, forgetting for just a moment why he has to do this at all.

He washes his hands, still naked, then gathers the discarded clothes from the floor. He tosses them in the hamper in his bedroom. He tries not to, but he finds himself opening his dresser drawer, sliding out a well-worn slip of photo paper. There are four pictures on it, faded from the years. Allison’s grin is bright and full of life, and he feels the corner of his mouth lift unconsciously. His heart aches, feels like it’s spent too little time moving, and now it has to beat and move and run.

He wonders if it ever will.


	3. Round 3 - No Penetration

“Derek,” Stiles groans, face pressed into the mattress as Derek teases him, tongue darting around his hole but failing to press in. “I’m getting old over here, _fuck_. C’mon.” There’s a brush of stubble against his ass, then a quick, stinging slap.

“Don’t rush me,” Derek says, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Stiles’ back. “You’ve been gone for three months. I’d like to take my time.”

“I’d like you to take _me_ ,” Stiles says, shaking his ass, just a bit, and looking over his shoulder. Derek’s hair is standing in spikes from Stiles’ fingers, his mouth swollen and wet. He leans forward and capture’s Stiles’ mouth in a hungry kiss, groaning. Derek pulls back, then puts his hands on Stiles’ hips, squeezing tight enough to bruise.

“Finally,” Stiles sighs, leaning his shoulders into the mattress, ass in the air. Derek runs the head of his dick over Stiles’ hole, still fucking teasing, and then a door slams downstairs.

“Stiles! I’ve got burgers from Johnny’s, and they gave me extra curly fries. C’mon, get down here before it gets cold.”

Derek pauses, and Stiles looks over his shoulder quickly, eyebrows raised.

“No,” he whispers, suddenly serious. “No, we are not going to stop. Not even for extra curly fries. You put that dick in me, and you do it now.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, grip loosening, “your dad’s downstairs. He’s going to _hear_ us.”

“I do _not_ care,” Stiles says, pressing his ass against Derek’s cock. “You fuck me, and you fuck me now.”

Derek groans again, then lines himself up, rutting against Stiles’ ass. There’s a slight burn, a pressure that Stiles arches up into, the head of Derek’s dick pressing, giving...

“Stiles! C’mon, I’m not kidding. Don’t make me come up there.”

“Fuck me,” Derek says, pulling back, his hands leaving warm memories on Stiles’ hips. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I love you, but I can’t… Not with your dad downstairs.”

Stiles groans, flopping bonelessly onto the bed.

“Why?” He asks into the mattress. “What did I do in another life to deserve this? All I’ve ever asked for is to have a good time, in many different positions, and instead? My super hot boyfriend, who I haven’t seen in three months, is leaving me with the world’s worst case of blue balls, because my _dad_ decided that it’s a good idea to have family bonding night while I’m trying to get fucked.”

“You’d best watch your language, kid.”

Stiles screams, flailing as he falls off the bed, hard. He’s definitely got a scrape on his butt now, but that’s not nearly as important as pulling the blankets from the bed to cover himself.

“Dad, what’re you doing in here?”

“Well, I figured my son would want the extra curly fries I brought home,” he says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. “But, instead, I find him in bed at six in the evening, bare-ass naked and saying some things that, frankly, a parent should never hear their child say.”

Stiles gapes at him, still clutching his blankets to his crotch.

“So, get yourself dressed and come downstairs to eat. I’m not letting my burger get cold waiting for you.”

He leans off the doorway and starts heading down the hall. Stiles presses his face into the blankets with a sigh.

“Oh, and tell Derek to get out of the closet. I got him a cheese steak.”

There’s a long pause - a pause so long that Stiles graduates college, gets a mortgage, and starts talking about 401K’s - and then Derek’s voice comes out of the closet, muffled but clearly his.

“No peppers?”

“No peppers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually won this round! Thanks for everyone who voted during the Games. I seriously appreciate it so much.


	4. Round 4 - Light vs. Dark

You're sitting at your desk, the dark wood stained and scarred. There's a tumbler half-full of whiskey by your side, the glass sweating in the heavy summer heat, ice long since gone. The fan turns uselessly overhead, pressing hot, humid air down on you. You've got your shirt sleeves rolled up to your elbows, a thin layer of sweat clinging to your forearms. Lydia’s out today, working on tracking down some deadbeat, so you’ve got the windows open as wide as they can go. There’s a fleeting breeze that feels like cool hands against your neck, but it’s gone more than it’s not.

 _Dad never had to deal with this_ , you think, leaning back in your chair. Sheriff of a small town didn’t come with many perks, but northern California was at least cooler than New York. Out here, it’s all dirt and grime and hot asphalt. Some days, like these, you miss the towering trees and the cool, soft breezes. But it’s 1948, and there’s really nothing for you in Beacon Hills. You knew that when you got back from the war, knew that living a quiet, peaceful life wasn’t something you could do anymore. The weather may occasionally suck, but living in New York fills a space in your chest that Normandy blew wide open.

You down your whiskey, the glass sticking to your fingers. It burns, the liquor sitting heavy in your stomach. There’s a knock at the door, and you set the glass on the desk. The sleeves of your shirt stick against your skin as you try to roll them down. You’re halfway out of your chair when the door slams open. The man who walks through is wide in the shoulders and lean in the hips, his dark hair lying across his forehead in a limp mess. His eyes, when they meet yours, remind you of stormy seas. There’s something deep beneath the surface, but you’ll never really know what. You finally get the sleeves down, your hands shaking suddenly, and button them at the wrist.

“How can I help you?”

“My sister, she…” he chokes out. He shakes his head, then shuts the door behind him. “She’s been missing for a couple of weeks. The cops haven’t done anything, and I just… I don’t know what to do.”

You nod, then direct him to the chair in front of the desk.

“If we’re talking about a standard missing person, that runs about twenty-five dollars a day, plus a five dollar per diem.”

He shakes his head, face ashen.

“I can’t afford that,” he says, running his hands through his hair, his head hanging.

Maybe it’s the liquor, or maybe it’s the taut bowstring of his shoulders in his crisp shirt, but something motivates you to reach out and lay your hand on the desk, drawing his attention upwards.

“Look, pal. I’m not trying to be tough here, but PI work is expensive, and that’s that. I’ve gotta eat, you understand?”

He nods, his eyes staying glued on your hand on the table.

“Save up a little money, then come see me, and we’ll get your girl back. Alright?”

You go to pull your hand away, but he stops you with his own. His fingers are a sudden excitement on your skin.

“There’s got to be something I can do,” he says, looking up at you through his eyelashes. “Some other way I can pay you.”

There’s a hot thrum below your skin, your pulse like a sudden gust of warm air. You slowly turn your hand so your palm is facing up, cradling his long, elegant fingers in your own. He threads his fingers in between yours, then slowly pulls your hand from the desk. You lean forward, your body flowing after his, until you’re half leaning on the desk, your fingers pressed against his mouth. He parts his lips, then slowly draws your middle finger in. His mouth is warm, his tongue pressed tight against your finger. There’s a sudden suction, and you feel it down in the soles of your feet. Your cock jumps in your slacks, pressing against the slightly damp fabric. You’re too warm, but for different reasons now.

“Yeah,” you say, voice choked and heavy. “Yeah, there’s something we can do.”


	5. Round 5 - Canon/AU Divergence

It’s dark in the vault. Erica can barely make out the edges of the room. She finds her way around by touch, mainly, and the scrape of her bare feet on the broken floor. There’s a musty smell to the room, something that reminds her of wet hair and burning dust. Her toes hit something soft, and she trips, tumbling to the ground. There’s a quiet groan behind her, familiar and unwelcome.

That’s how she finds Boyd.

*****

Whoever’s holding them isn’t big on food. They’re given a fast food hamburger every once and a while, tepid water in crinkled plastic bottles rolled to them from the massive door of the vault. Boyd insists she eat her fill, makes her take the first bites and sips. Erica pretends to be full long before the gnawing ache in her gut settles, forces Boyd to eat the rest. They’re both barely scraping by, but as their bodies weaken, their resolves strengthens. Anger is a banked fire in her belly, the only source of warmth besides the breadth of Boyd’s back against hers when they fight to sleep at night.

 _It’s just a matter of time_ she thinks.

*****

His hands are warm against her skin, fingers calloused and familiar. She groans into his touch, body arching up against his. She finds his mouth in the dark, holds his head steady between her palms and pulls him closer. He presses in, wraps his arms around her until there’s no space between them. She lets her hands drift, tracing the hard curves of his muscles - just a little smaller, just a little less - and fists his worn shirt in her hands. He groans, starts pressing fevered kisses to her face and neck.

“It was going to be different,” he says, whispering it into the hollow of her throat, kissing a burning line up her jaw. “I was going to take you to dinner, there were going to be flowers-”

She cuts him off with a kiss, then fumbles with his belt, fighting to get it open.

“Don’t care,” she says, the buckle sliding free. “As long as it’s you.”

*****  
The longer they go without shifting, the harder it is for Erica to keep a hold on her humanity. She starts fighting with Boyd, the two of them snapping at each other with blunt human teeth, growls escaping from their throats in thin imitation of their shifted voices. She draws blood one night, and he throws her across the room. There’s a snap, and it’s hard to breathe. It heals, slowly, but they’re wary around each other after that.

They still lie close together at night, pack overriding any other instincts that may be bubbling up.

*****

When Derek opens the door, she hardly recognizes him. She just smells fresh air and freedom, and before he can do anything, she’s pushed her way past, forced her way into the open lobby of the bank. The ground tears her feet, leaving blood, wet and red, on the white floor behind her.

She doesn’t care. She raises her voice to the sky, feels her bones shift under her skin as the wolf breaks free, and runs, her mate by her side.

Ready to hunt.


	6. Round 6 - Fandom Tropes

“Look, it's not that hard. All you have to do is wear a suit, hold my hand a little bit, and make everyone else jealous,” Stiles says, his cell phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he searches for his wallet. The woman at the cash register eyes the pile of junk food making its way down the conveyer belt, then raises her eyebrow. Stiles shrugs, the phone slipping from his shoulder, and he scrambles to catch it.

“Stiles, I am not pretending to be your boyfriend for your college reunion.”

“C’mon,” Stiles whines, passing the still judgey woman a twenty, “Derek, please? How many times have I saved your life, and you can’t do me one favor?”

“It was once, twelve years ago. And I’m pretty sure you cashed in that favor when I helped you move into your house.”

Stiles scoffs.

“That didn’t count, you were paid in pizza and beer.”

The woman hands Stiles his change and receipt, and he carefully slips his wallet back into his pocket, grabs the bag of food, and heads out of the grocery store.

“You know I don’t drink,” Derek continues, still sounding slightly annoyed and slightly fond. “And you made me carry a fold-out couch up a flight of stairs. That’s nearly attempted murder.”

“Dude, I will pay for your tux rental or whatever. I had one boyfriend in college, and he was an ass, and I need to show these guys how awesome I’ve gotten since I graduated. Just… Please? It’s important to me.”

There’s a long, silent pause as Stiles fumbles his keys into the door of the Jeep, then buckles in. The engine ticks over in slow, lumberous seconds, until there’s a loud sigh through the phone.

“Fine,” Derek says, “but you’re driving.”

\---

Stiles fiddles with the cuffs of his jacket, tugging them to cover the bony edges of his wrists. He’s unreasonably nervous about his fake date, even went to the trouble of renting a nice car. _It’s just a fake date with Derek,_ he reminds himself, stepping up the front door of his apartment and ringing the bell.

Of course, Derek looks phenomenal. His suit clings to his shoulders, tapers in at the waist, accents the hard planes of him with soft, grey wool. His scruff has been trimmed and tamed into something more classy, and Stiles has the sudden desire to feel it against the tender skin of his thighs.

“You look good,” he says instead, his voice unexpectedly gruff. “C’mon, we’re gonna miss dinner.”

Derek looks Stiles up and down, then nods approvingly. He shuts the door behind him, then slides his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, pulling him in for a soft kiss. 

“You, too,” he says, pulling away from a stunned Stiles and heading towards the car, a slightly cocky grin on his face. “Let’s go.”

Stiles is frozen on the porch for longer than he should be. He slowly makes his way to the car, knees weak. Derek is leaning against it, still grinning, and Stiles immediately starts thinking about how he can get revenge.

\---

Stiles’ back hits the tiled bathroom wall _hard_ , but he barely notices the twinge as Derek presses up against his front, hands bunched up with the fabric of his suit jacket, teeth nipping at the hinge of his jaw.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles groans, threading his fingers into Derek’s hair. Derek silences him with a kiss, gets his leg in between Stiles’ and presses in. Stiles thrusts up against the solid weight of Derek’s leg, then groans when he feels Derek hard against his hip. Stiles pulls himself away, gasping.

“What the fuck,” he pants, “is happening right now?”

Derek starts fumbling with Stiles’ belt.

“This is your fault,” he says, palming Stiles’ cock through his boxers. “You are entirely to blame for this. I’m going to fuck you in the bathroom of an academic building, and it is _not_ my fault.”

Stiles groans, thrusts up into Derek’s hand, and starts nodding.

“I am so okay with that,” he says, pulling Derek into the handicapped stall and slamming the door behind him. “There’s lube in my back pocket.”

Derek drops to his knees, licking his lips as he pulls Stiles’ cock free.

“I know,” he says, before his mouth’s too busy to say more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also won for this one, though it was second place. Still, I'm pretty thrilled people enjoyed it as much as they did, and I'm definitely planning on expanding this story and universe. So, if you like this, keep your eyes peeled. There will be more to come!


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